


Souls in Love are Always Young

by Rymdunge



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, M/M, Romance, not sure if the violence is "graphic" enough to warrant the warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rymdunge/pseuds/Rymdunge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of fairytale-themed Marlas fics. Enjoy!</p><p>Story index:<br/>1. The Kind Baker<br/>2. Love's Reward</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kind Baker

Once upon a time, there was a young man, wandering the streets of a small, snow covered town. The coat he wore was old and torn, and didn’t shield him much from deep cold. He trotted down the empty road, walking quickly to keep as warm as he could. Through the windows a pale-red glow reflected upon the untouched snow. The man gazed in through frosty glass, wishing that he could curl up by one of the now fading fires, or sleep under the heavy blankets keeping the residents warm.

The sent of fresh bread danced down the icy road, and the young man's stomach roared and ached. He hunched over a bit more as he continued on his way. Unable to hinder himself, he followed the smell, and it lead him to a small bakery at the end of a narrow alley. A sign above the door, with letters that looked to have been written by a small child, called it “My Bake Now”. The homeless man pressed his red nose to the shop’s window, and peered into the dim room. The light of a kerosene lamp with frosted glass lit the shop only enough to reveal the broad strokes of movement, but not its details.

The sent wafting through the crack of the door was so divine that the man decided to sit down on top the stairs infront of it. “Only for a short moment,” he thought. “Only until I have regained my strength.” He watched as a few sparse snowflakes fell from the roof above the door, and danced through the deep-blue sky. They looked almost like stars, the man thought. In his tired mind, he imagined the stars being struck by flaming arrows, puncturing them like balloons. He imagined them slowly deflating, until they no longer could fight the pull of gravity, and fell, ever so slowly, towards the ground.

As the snowflakes fell, the young man found that his eyelids were growing heavy, as though pulled by the silver shavings. Just as he ws about to close his eyes, the bell above door jingled and a puff of heat hit his back. “Oh dear, the street urchins are especially big this year.”

The young man hurried to his feet, and turned to apologize for loitering. But when he beheld the baker, standing in the doorway, illuminated by the faint light from the shop, his voice died in his throat. He was tall, his shoulders broad and belly slightly rounded. His black hair was streaked with silver and flour and a charming smile crinkled his dark eyes. A stark white hung around his neck, but hadn't been tied behind his back. Underneath it, he wore a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing his broad upper arms.

Just as the young man thought he had regained his ability to speak, he laid eyes on the golden loaf of bread, cradled in one of the baker’s arm. The young man found himself completely transfixed by it.

“How much is that loaf?” As soon as the words escaped his lips, a flush of shame heated his face. Hadn’t the sent been so wondrous and the air from the bakery so warm, the poor man would have rushed off before the baker could give him a piece of his mind. Who was he –– a dirty beggar -- to ask for the price of bread that he obviously could not afford?

The baker gazed down upon him (he was not _much_ taller than the other man, but his position at the top of the stairs gained him at least a foot). Amusement sparkled in his brown eyes. “As it happens,” he said. “We have a special offer on today.”

The young man looked up in surprise, unsure how to react. He had a few copper-coins in his pocket, but no where near enough to buy even the smallest loaf of yesterday's bread.

The baker stepped down onto the second step, careful not to slip on the icy stone. He patted the loaf in his arm and it made a dry, solid sound indicative of its freshness and quality. “One loaf of bread," he said, raising one finger, "for the price of one kiss.”

The young man blushed, and brought his hand to his mouth in a manner unusually prudish manner for a simple beggar. His eyes flickered across the baker's face in search of some sign of dishonesty or ill-intention. When he found nothing more than an amused grin, his eyes fluttered to the baker's lips.

Now, you mustn’t think baldy of the young man for kissing a complete stranger, for he was very hungry and sent of the bread was close to intoxicating, and the baker had a certain gentleness about him, behind the smug smile.

He stepped near and stood on the tips of his feet, and pressed his lips to the baker's. The young man’s mouth was as cold as any other part of him and it couldn’t have been very pleasant to press your lips against. Yet the baker kissed him warmly and sweetly, and the young man felt a wondrous heat bloom in his chest.

They parted, and the baker pressed the bread into the his arms. It was still quite warm and the young man curled his fingers around it, relishing the slightly painful tingle as his hands slowly heated. Before he could get as much as a ‘thank you’ past his lips, the baker spoke again: “Have you no room for the night – or morning, as it were.”

The young man shook his head no. The night before, he had slept in a barn, a few miles out of town, but the farmer had found him and chased him away around four in the morning. For the whole day that followed, he had stayed on his feet, quenched his thirst with snow, and tried to wish away the hunger for which he had no cure.

“Well,” the baker said. “How lucky then, that we should have a bed for hire. Well, it’s not so much as a bed as a feuteuil, but it’s quite comfortable, and placed just by the fire, and a blanket is included in the price.”

The young man wasn’t quite sure what a 'feuteuil' was, but he would have laid down on a bed of nails, if only it was near a fireplace. “And how much is that?” he asked, feeling ever so slightly emboldened by the kindness the baker had shown him thus far.

The baker beheld him for a moment, studying his expression as though it was a particularly intricate piece of poetry, his expression a smidgen more serious than before. Then, he said: “As it happens," he said, voice it’s already covered by the expense for the bread.”

This surprised the young man greatly. “But, that can’t be right!” he protested, for you see, he considered himself a person of high morals, despite his difficult situation. “The bread cost one kiss, and that is all that I paid!” It was just simple math, really. Frankly, the young man was _shocked_ that the baker seemed to lack such basic and _vital_ knowledge for this trade.

The baker raised his eyebrows and smiled at him with great amusement. His eyes raked across the young man’s face, and it felt strangely hot. “Ah, right you are!” he exclaimed. “Do forgive my absentmindedness, sir." He placed a hand on his chest and made a deep bow, as though he was speaking to a man of equal or higher degree. "The price of the resting-place is, as with the bread, one kiss.” He looked up at the other man from his bent position, a slight challenge playing playing at the corner of his lips.

Now, the young man found the price setting of this establishment a bit odd – what sense did it make that a loaf of freshly baked bread and one night’s lodging had the same price? – but he decided not to voice his concern. It was _hardly_ his place to do so, after all. Instead, he leaned in, pausing only to let the baker straighten his back, and placed his mouth to the baker’s once more. This time around, the baker pressed a broad palm to the young man’s waist. It was just as warm as the bread, and the young man couldn’t help but move closer to the older man.

Eventually, the baker moved away, after one final peck at the corner of the young man’s mouth. “Welcome to _Hôtel du MBN,”_ he murmured.

He led the young man inside, and through the door behind the counter into the bakery. He pulled a deep-red blanket of a shelf above a couple of large bags of flour, and wrapped it around the young man’s shoulders. He paused before him for a moment to give the blanket a final tug, as though to secure it, before moving on.

The young man remained in the entrance, gazing longingly at the oven and the ruby-glow that shone out from it, as the baker walked over to the darkest corner of the room. there, he lifted a wooden box out of a slightly worn armchair, and pulled it over to the fire. He looked up to the young man, as he patted the headrest. “There we are,” he said with a smile.

The young man walked with unsure steps over to the chair. As he had settled down, the baker moved back to his working bench, continuing working with the dough already waiting there. As he got back into the rhythm of kneading, he started crooning softly. His voice, the young beggar thought, was remarkably deep and smooth, and it seemed to fill his mind and chest like warm vapor, making them at the same time pleasantly heavy and light. He drew the blanket closer around himself, and tugging tiny bits off of his loaf and popped them into his mouth, until he was too tired to continue eating. He kept listening to the baker's sonorous lullaby as he shut his eyes and relaxed into his chair. The flames of the fire kept dancing over his eyelids, creating images of unknown animals and scenes before his inner eye.

With a final, gentle sigh, the young man fell asleep, cradled in warmth and the homey sounds of human labor.

~o~

As the sun rose above the snow-covered rooftops, the young man was woken by the sound of voices.

“You are going to drive me to my grave, Douglas! You truly are! Do you think this is some sort of _charity!?”_

The young man shut his eyes firmly, and tried to sneak the loaf under his shirt without the other people in the room noticing that he had awoken. He considered simply rushing out the door, so as to not risking losing his bread, but the warmth from the fire had made him docile and slow, and the thought of returning to the cold street appealed to him very little.

“Carolyn, he was as pale as a ghost! He would have caught his death had I not let him in! And besides, he will hardly bring down your profit by just _sitting_ there!”

“What of the bread you decided that you had the authority to give away, hmm?” the angry lady snapped. “What of our _reputation?_ What am I supposed to do if we find ourselves with a slue of beggars and thieves nosing around our doorstep, looking for freebees?”

“I will pay you back,” the baker – Douglas – said lightly.

“Out of your own salary, I assume?”

“Oh, no! There is no need for _that.”_ The young man heard steps moving toward him, and he stopped breathing. A hand settled on his tense shoulder and he couldn't keep from gasping at the sudden contact. “You know how to mind an oven, don’t you?” Douglas said with a winning smile.

The young man stuttered, “I… I… Yes.” Insecurity made his answer sound more like a question, but the baker didn’t seem to care.

 _“Excellent!_ Look here, Carolyn! I’ve found you that new baker you’ve been looking for!”

The young man turned to look at the old woman standing in the middle of the room, glaring at the jovial baker. “You can't _possibly_ be serious,” she said.

“I will take _full_ responsibility for him,” the baker promised, and the young man felt a strange new warmth rise within him at his words. Somehow, The thought of the baker ‘taking responsibility’ for him appealed to him greatly.

The woman’s surly expression grew slightly darker. She glanced over at the young man for but a short moment, before sighing. The dark expression left her face, with only slight reluctance, leaving behind a hint of weariness, and a sharp sternness.“Very well, Douglas,” she said. “But if he turns out to be a thief or a dimwit, I will take all lost profit straight out of your salary.” And with that, she left up a flight of stairs that had been hidden by the nightly shadows when the young man arrived.

Douglas huffed and turned his attention once more to the young man, still clasping his loaf of bread the same way a parent might hold their child. “You will behave, won’t you?” he asked with a voice fully convinced that the answer would be ‘yes’.

“I do not know how to thank you,” the young man breathed.

Douglas raised one eyebrow, and gazed down at him with both great affection and amusement. “Don’t you?” he murmured, leaning against his working bench and rising his chin like a challange.

“Well…” The young man flushed as he was struck by realisation. “I believe I do, but…”

“There is no need to thank me,” Douglas said. He paused for a short moment before continuing. “Unless you really want to.”

“It would be unfair not to,” the young man said. He was a man of high ethics, remember? “I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

“Perish the thought.” Douglas grinned wolfishly. He moved across the room to lean down over the back of the armchair. The young man stretched his neck to meet him, but the baker paused just before their lips touched. “It just occurred to me that I don’t yet know your name.”

“Martin,” said the young man breathed, squirming slightly in his seat. He was anxious to repay his debt, after all.

 _“Martin,”_ the baker echoed, seemingly sampling the taste of the name. “It suits you quite nicely.”

“That’s all very well...” Martin said, stretching his neck and gently parting his lips to entice the older man.

Douglas smiled smugly and leaned down to bestow one of his warm kisses upon his new colleague. Martin kissed back thoroughly, trying to display _all_ his gratitude in the press of lips.

Martin would have been quite happy to keep on thanking his savour for quite a while longer, but in the end, the baker pulled away, eyes ablaze. “I suggest you have some breakfast, and wash your face and hands. You can help Arthur mind the till once you’re done. I’m afraid I must leave for a while. We’re all out of rye flour.”

And with that, Douglas picked a heavy coat from a hook, haphazardly hung by the door. He turned in the door, suddenly remembering something. “There’s milk in the jug beneath the counter. _Do_ help yourself to as much as you like.” And with that, he was gone.

Martin watched him leave, and was overcome by a strange desire to follow, even though the weather outside surely was just as unbearable as it had been the night before. Rationality and hunger in equal measures held him back, but he prayed that the baker would come back soon.

Meanwhile, he settled down into his chair and nibbled on his bread, and allowed himself to imagine that springtime had arrived in his life.


	2. Love's Reward Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! I'm not dead!
> 
> Sorry I have been so inactive lately. I've had a hard time adjusting to my new job, and this "one-shot" is growing a whole lot longer than I'd expected. I'm just gonna split it into parts, so that I can get an actual update out. Sorry!
> 
> I realised that this will be the second fic to feature Douglas as a chef. I swear they won't all be like this!

One day, the king of the land decided to hire a new head-chef of the castle, as the old one was about to enter retirement. Many people came, from far and wide, to try their luck, but only one emerged successful – one Mr. Douglas Richardson. If you asked him, he would say that he did not need to ‘try’ his luck, as he already believed in his own fortune above any other power in the world. Though people might be provoked by his hybris, no one could deny his aptitude when it came to cooking.

To celebrate the arrival of his new employee, the king decided to hold a big feast. Invitations were sent to royalty and noblemen from countless kingdoms, and the whole castle was buzzing with excitement, even though the celebration was more than a month away. 

Most excited of all was Richardson. He strode through the castle, basking in the admiration of the other members of staff. When asked what dishes he had planned for the feast, he would tap his nose, eyes twinkling, and say: “Now, what fun would it be in revealing the plot before the premiere?”

The only thing to match Richardson’s pleasure, was the dread of another resident of the castle. Richardson was blissfully unaware of this for four days after his arrival. On the fifth day, he walked down the hallway as he usually did. He turned a corner and bumped into someone with such force that the other person was thrown backward.

“Ah,” Richardson said. “Where is the fire?” 

As he looked down to offer his hand to the poor man he noticed that the person he had bumped into was particularly well dressed. Before he could say anything else, a freckled face looked up at him, twisted with fury.

 _“How dare you!?”_ said the young man. He slapped Richardson’s hand away and got to his feet, which revealed his unimpressive hight. “Do you have any idea who I am!?”

Richardson smiled, but made no effort to hide the contempt in his voice. “No, but I am sure you are about to tell me.”

The young man gaped at him, momentarily stunned into silence. A deep red flush spread across his face as he regained his bearings. “I am Prince Martin Benedict James, and you will address me as ‘Your Highness!’”

It took tremendous effort not to laugh the tiny man right in the face, but Richardson was nothing if not a good actor. “Oh,” he said neutrally. “Is that so?”

The prince was about to say something else, when a sharp voice echoed down the hallway. _“Martin!!!”_

All of the prince’s anger vanished, as suddenly as if he had been struck by lightning. He whirled around to see the king himself striding toward him. “What are you doing socializing with the staff!? Have you nothing better with which to occupy yourself?”

“Father,” the prince said, suddenly subdued. “The feast is more than a month away…”

The king stepped close, a reprimanding finger shoved in his son’s face. “Unless you are absolutely finished with all of your preparations, I don’t want to hear any talk about how much time you have left. Is that clear?”

The prince stood ramrod straight, hands clenched at his sides. “Yes father,” he said, voice trembling.

“Good.” The king turned his attention towards Richardson, expression changing into a wide smile. “I assume the kitchen’s preparations are going smoothly.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Richardson said with his most charming smile.

The king glanced at the prince, still standing between them and staring down at his feet. “Get going, Martin.”

The young prince burst into motion, like a whipped horse. As he hurried down the hallway, the king added. “Make sure to improve your posture. First impressions are of great importance.”

Richardson watched the prince go with only vague interest. He did well to disguise his schadenfreude as excitement over the menu – which he still refused to disclose, of course. It was clear that the Prince had little authority in this household. A small man trying to fit into shoes that did not really belong to him. Absolutely nothing to worry about.

– - –

About a week later, Douglas got to talking to head of staff – one Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. They were sitting in her chambers-come-office, discussing the menu (which in reality had yet to be determined).

“Honestly, Douglas!” Carolyn said. “You have to decide on a menu yesterday! The kitchen staff are starting to get nervous.”

“I don’t need an entire month of planing, Carolyn,” Douglas said, leaning back in the comfortable armchair placed on the opposite side of Carolyn’s desk. “I have whipped up better meals in half an hour than most so called chefs do in three days.”

“Well, imagine how _utterly wondrous_ the food will be if you get started now. God, I swear, you have a worse aversion to work than that man-child prince Martin!”

Douglas sat up straight, a disgusted frown on his face. “Do not compare me to that obnoxious little twit!”

“Well, stop behaving like him and get started.”

“The difference between me and His Royal Highness _Prince Martin,”_ he made sure to instill as much sarcasm as humanly possible in every syllable of the title. “Is that _I_ do not _need_ preparing, where as the Prince…”

Carolyn sighed. “Well, you’re certainly right in that aspect. It’s going to take a lot before anyone considers taking him for a husband.”

Douglas snorted. “Who in their right mind would ever want to marry _him?”_

Carolyn hummed in agreement. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t be for his charming personality. However, the diplomatic and economic benefits should be enough to sway at least _somebody.”_

“I very much doubt that.”

Later that same day, Douglas was promenading through the castle garden, as the weather was particularly good that afternoon. He made his way to a rather secluded area at one end of the garden, hidden from the castle by trees and pushes and carefully designed to look like a meadow. The ground was covered with small, pale flowers and a couple of moss-covered rocks marked its centre. The sun shone in from an opening in the canopies above and created a natural spotlight that moved around the meadow as the position of the sun changed.

There was somebody laying in the sun, and Douglas recognised them immediately from the vivid mop of red hair crowning their head. It was none other than Prince Martin and Douglas cursed his bad luck. He had hoped to get some time to himself, to relax in the wonderful weather.

As he snuck closer, he realised that the prince was fast asleep. He walked right up to the prone man and looked down at him. Had this been the first time he saw the prince, he would almost have been inclined to call him beautiful. Sharp, high cheekbones contrasted dramatically with his plush, slightly parted lips, and the gentle red curls made him look almost angelic. The sunlight gleamed in the pale hairs dusting his cheeks and chin and made him glow ever so slightly.

Douglas also noticed how sickly the young prince looked. There was a slight tone of gray in his pale skin, and he had dark circles around his eyes. The skin was stretched too tightly over his face, and even though sleep made his muscles relax, there still was a worry-filled wrinkle between his eyebrows.

Douglas shook himself, and tried to remember what an insufferable creature this man really was. A mischievous glint appeared in his eye as he realised what a marvelous opportunity for retribution the prince’s momentary vulnerability presented him with. An opportunity he could hardly pass up.

He leaned down and inhaled deeply, before shouting, imitating the voice of the king quite well: “So, this is where you have gone of hiding!”

The prince snapped awake and sat up so quickly that he stretched his neck. “Father!?” he looked at Douglas, and then around the meadow. “What? What?” He looked at Douglas again, staring at him without really comprehending what he was seeing. _“Why?”_ he said as though it was a complete question.

“Three very excellent questions, _Your Highness.”_

Realization dawned upon the prince’s face, and it darkened with fury. He tried to get to his feet, but his limbs were still sluggish with sleep, and he remained sitting on the ground, looking pathetic.

“Do you need a hand, _Your Highness?_ Or perhaps you prefer looking at the world from the perspective of a mole?” As he had the last time they had met, he offered his hand to the prince, only to have it slapped away.

“Can you not just leave me alone!?” the prince growled, as he tried to get to his feet. “I can have you exiled, you know!”

“Now if I may say so, Your Highness…”

_“You may not!”_

“Your Highness really must work on his conversation skills if Your Highness hopes to attract any suitors.”

The prince froze for a second, kneeling on the ground and staring blankly infront of him. Then he jumped to his feet and brushed of his clothes. “Well,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the tension in his voice. “How lucky then that nobody is going to concern themselves with my personality.”

“Ah, Your Highness is hoping to impress with his _dashing good looks.”_

The prince stood up straight and sent him a skin-melting glare. When he spoke, it was in a low voice forced through clenched teeth. “I realise that you think very little of me, but- But know this: I am not an idiot. I know nobody will ever want me because they _love_ me!” he spat out the word as though it had burned his tongue. “I suppose I am _lucky_ I come with a sixth of the kingdom and a mansion by the sea!”

He started hurrying toward the castle, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. Douglas was left standing in the middle of the meadow, trying to fight of the weight of guilt growing his his chest. Suddenly, the prince’s surly demeanor made more sense. He bit the inside of his mouth and sighed. From experience, he knew that he was not going to be able to rid himself of this disgusting feeling without doing anything about it.

That evening he made a batch of his best miniature tarts and snuck them into the prince’s chambers while the royal family were having dinner. He felt slightly better upon returning to the kitchen for clean-up, but he could not quite shake the memory of the prince’s harrowed face. Had he been getting enough sleep? Did he eat properly, or was he too wary to ever relax? 

He shook himself, and shouted at one of the waiters to mind the glasses she was carrying. There was no reason for him to worry about the prince’s love life. After all, he had a five course dinner to plan.


	3. Love's Reward Part 2

Two days later, Douglas ran into the prince again, although not in a litteral sense this time, and, if you were to be pedantic, it was the prince who ran into him. Douglas was sitting by one of the worktops in the kitchen, planning out the main-course of the Great Feast (as it had grown to be called amongst the staff), when he heard steps moving over the stone floor. It was clearly not a member of the kitchen-staff – they were too hesitant for that.

Douglas turned from his cookbooks and was surprised to see Prince Martin standing in the centre of the room, looking like he was trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Hello,” Douglas said with great surprise.

The prince flinched and fidgeted nervously, and refused to look straight at the cook. “I…” he mumbled. “I wanted to ask… Th- That is, I wanted to say… I mean, I wanted to _apologize._ For my unacceptable behavior, that is. I realise that I have been quite rude.”

Douglas was rendered momentarily speechless by this sudden change in demeanour, which made the prince even more nervous. He seemed about to bolt, when the chef spoke. “No worries, Your Highness. I should apologize as well.”

The prince smiled hesitantly, and Douglas felt a stir in his gut. He realised that this was the first time he had seen the prince smile.

The prince’s smile faded and he looked just as unsure as before. “I uh… I suppose I ought to get going.”

As he turned to hurry out the kitchen, Douglas decided to cut the poor man some slack. With utmost confidence and nonchalance, he said, “If you are not too busy, I wouldn’t mind getting your opinion on a couple of things concerning the menu of the upcoming festivities.”

The prince eyed him with some suspicion. “You want _my_ opinion?”

“Well, it is _your_ big night, is it not?”

The prince’s expression grew dark, and for a second Douglas worried that he had said the wrong thing. After a moment’s thought, the prince seemed to arrive at some sort of a decision. The tension fled his body, and he moved towards the working bennch. “I suppose,” he said neutrally before sitting down on the chair beside Douglas. “And must I remind you to call me by my proper title?”

Douglas snorted but found that the prince’s snootiness did not annoy him quite as much as it had earlier. In fact, it was very nearly endearing. He decided against pointing out that the word ‘highness’ did not suit the prince very well, in case the prince would take it as a genuine insult rather than a joke. “I am afraid my memory is not what it used to be. You might have to remind me again at some point.”

The prince gave him a look of mock irritation, but his lips kept twitching upward. “You are insufferable.”

After that, the prince would come to visit the kitchens every day. The first few times he was shy and apologetic, but as Douglas kept reassuring him that ‘no, he was not intruding, or in the way’, the prince grew more and more comfortable. The kitchen staff were obviously confused, but didn’t dare ask why a member if the royal family kept visiting their workplace. They eventually grew used to having him around and returned to fretting and anticipating the nearing banquet.

 

About a week later, the sky opened for the first time in nearly a month. The whole castle seemed to grow sleepy under the weight of the storm. As the afternoon neared, the prince still had not shown up for his daily visit. To appease his mounting concern, Douglas questioned one of the waiters about what the prince had eaten during breakfast and lunch. The young man informed him that Prince Martin had not been precent at breakfast, nor lunch, which, of course, made Douglas even more concerned.

“Is it usual for His Highness to skip meals?” he asked, as though apropos nothing.

The waiter shrugged. “I suppose it is. He has been quite moody since the beginning of the year.”

Douglas dismissed him, and stood by his worktop for a long moment, staring at the tiled wall and frowning contemplatively. Really, it was no concern of his whether the prince ate enough. The man was old enough to make his own decisions in such matters.

Although, a sly voice in his head said, if the prince’s violent temper was in part due to his lack of nourishment, he would be doing the whole household a great favour by making an effort to feed the prince.

Decision made, he fried up some sausages and potatoes, laid them out on a tray and placed a cloche cover over it, before striding out into the hallway. He walked with quick, determined steps, trying to appear like a man far too busy to be questioned or disturbed.

He found the young prince in his chambers, sitting on the sill of the largest window in the room. The prince was staring up at the gray sky, completely lost in thought, it seemed. Douglas could only see a sliver of his expression, turned mostly away from him as it was, but he could see the slight frown etched on his face, and the dark circle around his eye.

He cleared his throat in an effort to make the prince aware of his presence without startling him. It was only moderately successful.

The prince jumped slightly and blinked owlishly at him. “Oh, hello Douglas,” he said, bringing one foot down to he floor and turning towards him, a smile lighting his face. Douglas felt his heart squirm at the sight. Sadly, the smile faded quickly to give way to a look of slight confusion. “What are you doing here?”

The chef lifted the cloche slightly higher into the air. “A little bird whispered in my ear that Your Highness was not present for lunch, which I cannot help but take as a slight towards my cooking. I was hoping that your highness would allow me to _humbly_ try to disprove whatever misconceptions Your Highness may hold when it comes to my capabilities in…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the prince interrupted, getting to his feet. “I get it. What have you brought?” His nostrils flared subtly and Douglas could not stop a light chuckle from escaping his lips.

“Nothing to advanced, I’m afraid.” He lifted the cloche to reveal the still steaming food beneath and the prince’s eyes lit up at the sight. “Gosh! When was the last time you ate!?”

The young man flushed as he accepted the tray, as well as the napkin-wrapped cutlery Douglas slid out of his pocket. “I…” He cleared his throat and sat back down on the windowsill, staring down at his platter. “Yesterday,” he said, voice slightly hesitant. He glanced up at Douglas for a short second from under his bangs, before looking away again. “I do not see how that is any of your concerns.”

“Well, it is my job to feed you, and the rest of the royal family.”

The prince looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “And I suppose those pastries you left in my rooms the other eve was also part of your duties towards my father?”

Douglas was slightly caught of guard by the question. The prince had never mentioned his offering during any of his visits to the kitchen. To be honest, Douglas had nearly forgotten about it until now. “But of course,” he said, smirking. “From my _professional_ experience, a lack of proper nourishment often causes gloominess. It is no secret that Your Highness has been in rather a foul mood as of late. Your moodiness has been making my staff – and the occupants of the castle at large – very uncomfortable. Bringing you out of your slump will make my people more relaxed, and therefore more effective, _and_ it might put me in good favour with the king, which is always beneficial.” The words flowed out of him effortlessly, as though said by someone else.

The prince looked at him with a blank expression for a long moment. The chef was starting to find his silence slightly unnerving when he finally spoke., voice a mixture of amazement and exasperation. “You have _really_ thought this through, have you not?”

“I always do,” Douglas said.

“Do you always have an ulterior motive with everything you do?”

“I can assure you, your highness, I never have fewer than seven ulterior motives.”

The prince snorted. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Now…” Douglas said. He moved over to the prince’s desk and pulled the elaborate chair next to it over to the window. “Why have you been avoiding the dining hall so dutifully lately?” he said, sitting down.

“Do you not know better than to sit down in presence of royalty?”

Douglas shrugged, grin widening. “I have said it before. My memory isn’t what it used to be when I was as young a man as you.”

The prince snorted. “You’re hardly old enough to forget _basic manners!”_

“Oh, you flatter an old man, Your Highness!“

The prince actually laughed out loud. “‘Old man,’ my a…!” The prince snapped his mouth shut before he could finish the sentence. “You’re hardly an old man,” he said, more subdued. He continued eating, as if to spare himself from having to speak again.

“You’re too kind, Your Highness. You still have not answered my question.”

The prince sighed, but and started cutting up one of the sausages and putting the pieces into his mouth. “I can’t relax with my father constantly looming over me. ‘Sit up straight! Wipe your face! Chew more quietly!’ As though I don’t grasp basic table maners!”

“That sounds _terribly_ frustrating,” Douglas said. “I suppose you will have to work on being able to pretend that your listening while your really not. Believe me, it is a useful skill to have.”

He smirked meaningfully at the prince’s annoyed expression, before glancing over at the large clock hanging on the wall. The golden hands showed that the time for the staff-meeting was closing in. “I apologize, your majesty, but I must take my leave.”

Was it his imagination, or did disappointment flash across the prince’s eyes?

“If you wish, I will bring your evening meal to your chambers,” he offered.

The prince smiled at him. “I would like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turing out unbelievably loooong.


	4. Love's Reward Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I've had a lot of preparations for uni that needed (and still needs) to be dealt with. I'll try work more on my writing from now on.

“How about a round of Douglas said while chopping up potatoes for dinner. Around them, the kitchen-staff was hurrying around, too busy to pay much attention to the prince and the chef.

When he did not get a response, Douglas turned away from his work to look at the prince. The young man was looking at him with a blank expression, as though he was speaking a foreign language.

“Do you know what _Twenty Questions_ is?” Douglas asked.

The young man flushed and looked away. “Sorry,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the stem of the apple Douglas thrown him as he entered the kitchen.

The results of Douglas’ campaign to get the prince to eat more had already started to show its effects. His cheeks had grown fuller and some of the grayness in his skin had given way to a rosy hue. He still looked tired, and sometimes he would grow silent and stare of into the distance with a frown on his face.

“No need to apologize,” Douglas said calmly. He returned his gaze to the work to spare the prince some of the embarrassment. “One player thinks of an object, and the other player gets to ask up to twenty yes-or-no questions, including ones asking whether the object is one specific thing.”

“Ah,” the prince said. “S- Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, believe me, it is,” Douglas said. “Do you want to go first asking questions?”

“Yes, alright.”

Douglas took a moment to come up with a word, before giving the prince his go-ahead.

“Right…” The prince grew silent for a moment. “Uhm…” He frowned up at the celling, blinking rapidly.

“Just start of with something general,” Douglas suggested.

“I know!” the prince snapped, before going silent for a long moment. His face got progressively redder the longer he thought and Douglas was almost worried he was going to overheat.

Would you prefer it if I started asking questions?” he asked, careful to keep his voice light and friendly.

The prince quickly looked down at his feet. “Perhaps,” he muttered, taking a bite from his apple.

“Right,” Douglas said and turned back to his work. He waited for a moment before asking: “Is it an animal?”

“No…”

“Does it move?”

“Yes,” the prince said, taking another bite of apple. As they got into the rhythm of the game, he started to relax somewhat.

“Is it a vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a carriage?” It was a bit early to start guessing specific objects, Douglas realised, but seeing as this was (apparently) the prince’s first time playing, he might not be able to come up with anything too difficult. 

“Nope.” A small smirk spread across his face. “You’re not going to get it.”

“Is that so?” Douglas laughed, glancing at the other man over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. He had to think for a moment before asking the next question. “Does it have wheels?”

“No,” the prince said dragging the ’N’ out and punctuating his answer with a bite of apple. The smug little smile playing on his lips and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes made him look quite fetching, Douglas thought.

‘You would have to have a heart of ice not to fall for that smile,’ he thought. Out loud, he said: “See, if you pull that expression, the rich and powerful are going to throw themselves at your feet, sea-side-mansion or no.”

The smile immediately faded and Douglas wished he had not spoken.

“They most certainly will not,” me muttered.

“Oh, now, don’t be like that,” Douglas reprimanded, turning his attention back to his work. “Humility is important, but a healthy dose of confidence will make anyone twice as appealing.”

“Well, there’s a difference between confidence, and being deluded,” the prince snapped.

“You are awfully pessimistic,” Douglas said, trying to sound jovial, but it had no effect on the prince’s sour mood.

“I’m being _realistic,_ thank you very much!” He sighed and rubbed his face as though it was aching. “Look,” he said, sounding more subdued. “Everyone who comes to that blasted party knows that my father is looking for somebody to marry me off to. They know him, and they know what he is offering my spouse, but none of them has even _met_ me. Anyone can figure out that they’re not hoping to marry me because of who _I_ am, but because of the benefits that I come with.”

“True,” Douglas said gently. He glanced over his shoulder again, taking in the prince’s crestfallen expression. “But that doesn’t mean that they won’t fall for you once they actually get to meet you.”

“And how am I supposed to know if they have?” the prince exclaimed, looking at him a bit like a lost soul might look at a priest when asking for spiritual guidance.

Douglas smiled warmly at him, looking into his eyes for longer than he probably should. “You will recognize it when you see it,” he said.

“That’s not very helpful.”

“Well, it’s all I can say. Love isn’t something that can be explained with words.”

The prince snorted, and rolled his eyes at him. “I will take your word for it. Anyhow, you still have fifteen questions left.”

Before Douglas got the chance to speak, the prince’s valet stepped in from the dining halls. He looked around the kitchen with a slightly lost expression, before laying eyes on the two of them. An enormous grin spread across his face. “Martin! Your father wants me to tell you that you have some clothes and other things that you need to try on.”

Martin sighed. _“Arthur,”_ he reprimanded. “How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t call him ‘your father.’”

Arthur frowned. “I know he’s not _my_ father. He’s _your_ father, though, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s also the _king,_ and you need to call him His Royal Highness, or you will get into trouble!”

“Right,” Arthur said with a curt nod. “Got it. Anyway, you need to hurry, or he will be _really_ mad, mother says.”

The prince sighed. “Fine, I will be right up. You,” he waved his hand in Arthur’s direction. “Go ahead an lay the clothes out.”

“Will do, Martin!” Arthur said and skipped out the room.

After a moment of silence, Douglas spoke. _“‘Martin?’”_ He turned to the prince, an exaggerated frown on his face.

“He cannot seem to learn to use proper titles,” the prince muttered. “Anyway, I must go.” He got up and threw his apple in the waste-basket Douglas had used to gather the potato-peels.

“No worries,” Douglas said. “What was your word, by the way?”

The prince smiled at him, and Douglas heart skipped. “How about we continue this game later?” And with that, he left.

Douglas stared at the door for a long while, even after the prince had left. “Martin,” he mumbled, lips tingling at the utterns of the name. It was in that moment it started to dawn on him that he might have a problem.

– - –

The prince grew very busy very quickly. Anytime Douglas caught sight of him in the hallway, he was being hassled by no less than three people – servants and advisors and tailors and God knows what else. To his great displeasure, Douglas noticed how the young man once more grew pale and thin.

He didn’t get much time to worry about that, however, as he himself was busy instructing the kitchen staff, and compile a list of ingredients and the amounts he needed. Two weeks before the feast, he visited Carolyn to turn his order over.

Carolyn was not alone in her chambers when Douglas arrived. Standing by her desk, gazing down at the sitting woman was Hercules the head of the stables. The two of them were talking in low, soft voices, and did not seem to notice Douglas’ arrival. If he had not seen it with his own eyes, Douglas would not have believed that Carolyn’s eyes where capable of such tenderness.

The stable maister was leaning over the seated woman. His movements were strangely gentle and unsure for a man of his age (and number of marriages, from what Douglas had heard), the desire to touch clearly fighting against the – perfectly rational – fear of the ruthless woman.

“Hello, Hercules,” Douglas said loudly. The pair snapped out of their intimate conversation and looked up at them like a couple of children caught with their fingers in the jam-jar. Douglas could not be more delighted. “Whatever brings you here?”

The other man actually _blushed,_ and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hello, Douglas. We were just discussing how to prepare the stables for the guests.”

“Oh, by all means, don’t let me disturb you!” Douglas said, eyes wide with mock innocence.

“Oh no,” Hercules said. “I was just leaving.” He glanced over at Carolyn, who gave him a curt nod.

Hercules hurried out of the room before anyone could say anything else. As the door slammed shut behind him, Douglas turned back to Carolyn and raised an eyebrow at her. “I do not recall you being directly responsible for the stables.”

“Well,” Carolyn said, ruffling some papers on her desk. “This is a special occasion, as I’m sure you are aware.” She gave him a glare, daring him to question her. “Anyway, do you _finally_ have a list of what your people need from me?”

“As a matter of fact,” Douglas said, pulling the neatly folded paper out of his pocket. “I do.”

Carolyn accepted the paper, unfolded it and skimmed through it quickly, before nodding. “Good,” she said. “But, seeing as you are so terribly late, it will take me at _least_ a week to get my hands on everything. Will that be good enough for you lot?”

“That is perfectly acceptable.”

– - –

That same evening, Douglas was laying in his bed, wide-awake despite the late hour. A to him unfamiliar sense of unease had grown in his chest, and it would not let him relax. He searched within himself for the cause. His mind kept jumping back to the sight of Carolyn and her darling stable-lad.

If he were to be perfectly honest – which he could, in the privacy of his own mind – he was ever so slightly jealous of how simple their relationship was. They were around the same age, had both been in relationships before, and were from the same social class. Nothing stood in their way, as opposed to Douglas and…

He faltered, a frown creasing his brow. His shallow, _impossible_ infatuation with the prince (he could admit that that was what he was feeling) was not comparable to any real romance.

Even so, he’s sleep-weighted gaze drifted across the room, and landed upon the sark-blue suit resting in the seat of the small chair at the far wall. He had gotten it back from the castle’s wash-house only this morning, and it was the finest set of clothing he owned.

Imagine him as a nobleman invited to the King’s feast, striding into the great ballroom – fashionably late, of course – in his handsome suit. Most certainly, a throng of people would have already gathered around the prince, all vying for his attention. Douglas would keep back for a while, not wanting to get mixed up with the overzealous suitors.

Their eyes would lock, from across the crowd. Douglas would smile charmingly and lift his drink in greeting. The prince would flush, but a small smile would still spread across his face. As if the crowd did not exist, they would move toward one another, meeting at the centre of the dance-floor.

“Would Your Highness do me the honour of sharing this next dance with me?” Douglas would murmur.

The young prince would nod shyly, and allow Douglas to take his hand. Douglas would place his hand on the prince’s waist and pull him near as the music from the orchestra burst into a new piece. The entire room would be staring at them, but Douglas would do his very best to keep the young prince’s attention only on him.

They would twirl slowly around one another, edging closer until their heartbeats mingled into one single sound. Douglas would spread the fingers of the hand pressed against the small of other man’s back, and draw him yet closer.

The minutes would float together to the point when neither of them could tell how much time had passed. As the music swelled, they would move away to look at each other’s eyes. The prince’s gaze would be warm and dreamy.

“Your Majesty,” Douglas would whisper.

“Please,” the prince would say. “Call me Martin.”

This was getting embarrassing. Douglas was far to old for infantile fantasies like this. Dreams of being a wealthy man, fit to pursue a member of the royal family; it was laughable!

With a heavy sigh, he turned his head to gaze out the window. The moon was not very bright where it sat, right in the centre of the small opening – the shape and colour of a thinly sliced piece of apple. It would not give any guiding light to those traversing the dark, but it would also hide them and safeguard their secrets.

If he were to get up from his bed, get dressed in that dark-blue suit – the same colour as the night itself – and step into the assuredly empty corridors, he could walk all the way to the prince’s chambers without anyone knowing.

He would enter without knocking, just to avoid the risk of anyone hearing the noise and come to investigate. The prince would be deeply asleep in his bed, the massive sheets and countless pillows nearly swallowing his small frame. Douglas would sneak near, and place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Do not fear, Your Highness, it is only I.”

“Douglas?” the prince would slur, a wide yawn punctuating his question. “Why are you here?”

“I have come to whisk you away from the horrible fate that is about to befall you,” Douglas would say with a dramatic flare. His words would cause the prince to sit up in his bed, suddenly wide awake.

“What!?”

“You don’t want to be married of to some stranger, and so long as you stay in your father house, you will be subject to his will. Seems to me like there is only one solution, which is…”

“…Leaving the castle,” the prince would finish, his lip growing pale as he bit down on it. “But, how will I ever survive on my own out… there?”

“Do not fear, Your Highness,” Douglas would say, clasping the prince’s hand, “I will come with you, and I won’t allow anything bad to happen to you. I swear by it.”

They would gaze into one another’s eyes for what would seem to be an eternal moment, before the prince would turn his hand in Douglas’ to return the hold. “I trust you, Douglas.” A smile would spread across his lips. “I suppose, now that I must leave my title behind, you will have to call me Martin.”

Even though he knew that it was utterly ridiculous, Douglas let himself be lulled to sleep by fantasies of them riding of into the night, leaving for far of lands and unknown cities, two anonymous travellers living the life of perfect freedom, bound to nothing but one another.


	5. Love's Reward Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit! Has it really been more than a month since my last update!? Who woulda thought...
> 
> Hopefully, I'll do better in the future. I've been feeling a lot more inspired as of late. Here's top hoping it lasts!
> 
> (And yes, the name of the OC in this chapter is very much intentionally ridiculous)

The time before the Great Feast went by in a blur, and before Douglas knew it, the guests started to show up. Endless deliveries of food, candles and decorations had been arriving all week. The whole castle had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Saluting soldiers lined the road between the gates and the castle doors. The military orchestra was playing endless, pompous melodies could barely be heard above the thundering of horse hoofs and excitable shouting. In the grand hall, a five-piece orchestra was gearing up to entertain the guests with pieces of music composed specifically for this evening.

Douglas didn’t see much of the actual feast. Occasionally, a particularly loud laugh or piece of music would reach the kitchen, timed to a moment when the bustle of the kitchen was especially low, but that was all.

He could not remember the last time he had gone for so long without sitting down, and when the final tray of nibbles left his kitchen, he was utterly exhausted. As he settled down at his favourite spot – by the work-bench he and the prince had been discussing the menu weeks ago – he overheard a pair of desert-chefs whispering about sneaking into the ballroom to admire all the glittering decadence of sixteen kingdoms’ combined royalty and nobility gathered in the same room.

Douglas was about to ignore them and waddle of to bed, when he remembered the prince. It couldn’t hurt, he thought, to go and see what the result of all that rigorous preparation had resulted in. Hopefully, it would help him put his delusional fantasies (that had not subsided since that evening after seeing Carolyn and Hercules) firmly to rest.

He waited until he was certain no one would notice him, before sneaking of towards the noise coming from the party. The corridor leading from the kitchen lead to a small door, opening up into a hidden corner of the ballroom. Many of the king’s guests had said that the waiting staff seemed to appear out of thin air and vanish just as suddenly, once they weren’t needed anymore. It was very much intentional.

To Douglas, this secretive nature meant that he could watch the festivities well out of sight, peeking out from behind an enormous plant with flowers so pungent that they must have been drenched in perfume.

It was not very difficult to catch sight of the prince, surrounded as he was by guests – much as he had been in Douglas’ evening-thoughts. At first, Douglas didn’t notice the man standing at the prince’s side – mesmerized as he was by the young man.

He had to admire all the hard work that clearly had been put into the prince’s appearance. His shimmering green coat went brilliantly with his eyes, and made his waste look petite, and his shoulders wide. The dark, tight trousers wrapped around his legs; made them look as delicate and graceful as a those of a young faun, especially as they moved – shyly and carefully – across the floor. His hair and minute sideburns were impeccably groomed – however they had combed those unruly curls into a sleek backslick, Douglas would never know. The light from the chandeliers high above made his hair glow like a lone cloudberry, surrounded by faded grass, on a rocky hill-side.

He was absolutely perfect, and Douglas absolutely _loathed_ it.

So focused was he on the prince, that he didn’t notice the man approaching him until he placed a hand on the prince’s elbow. The prince jumped slightly and looked up at the taller man – a broad-shouldered gentleman, dressed in a deep-red suit. A wheat-coloured mustache hid his lips from sight, and wobbled with every word he said.

The prince’s lips thinned at the other man’s word – whatever they might be. Despite his trepidation, he nodded, and allowed himself to be led of toward the crowd twirling around the dance-floor.

The mustached man settled a hand on the prince’s waste and pulled him along in a chirpy waltz, keeping a chaste distance between their bodies. He was a fine dancer, Douglas had to admit; looked ever the part the handsome nobleman, seeking the affection of the young prince. A small smile had started to spread across the prince’s face as they moved in perfect sync.

They looked… right; like what you would expect. Every pair of eyes had turned towards them by now, but their attention didn’t seem to become the prince as they usually would. He moved with a confidence incompatible with Douglas’ perception of him.

The mustached man leaned near to whisper something in the prince’s ear, and Douglas had had enough. Even if the mustached gentleman didn’t win the prince’s heart and hand, somebody, out of the hundreds of guests, was bound to, and Douglas would rather not be there to see it happen.

He walked back through the corridor in a blur. The door to his chambers seemed to materialize infront of him out of thin air. Without dwelling on this surprise, he opened it brusquely and stepped into the pitch-black room. His hands – still used to the heat of the kitchen – ached at the chill of the room, and as soon as he had closed the door behind him, he tucked them between his chest and upper arms.

The moon was bright enough to light up the room without the help of a candle, and Douglas could easily walk up to the window without fear of tripping or stumbling into something.

He leaned against the windowsill and gazed up at the pale orb in the sky as he tried to gather his thoughts. Despite feeling like his bones had turned into lead, he knew that sleep would not come easy to him this night. Rather than crawling into bed to stare at the celling for countless hours, he thought that a short walk around the castle-gardens might help him relax to the point were he could relax.

He walked back out the same way he’d came, and moved down the vacant corridors to a small door leading out into the east side of the garden – the more secluded part where the manmade meadow he’d found the prince was located.

The garden looked very different at night, devoid of any light but the silver of the moon. Douglas inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air as he walked down the perfectly groomed gravel path. He tried his best not to think of anything – especially not the prince and his dance-partner.

He walked along this path, trying to fill his mind with the details of his environment; the long row of bushes covered with white buds drawn closed against the evening chill, the impeccably cut grass without as much as a single pebble outside the borders of the path, the jasmin covered pergola cradled in bushes.

Just as he was passing, he heard a strange sound coming from the pergola. As he stopped, he realised that it was the sound of crying. For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Whoever it was probably wanted to be alone, seeing as they had hidden out in the garden in the middle of the night. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of solidarity with this other grief-stricken soul.

As he moved nearer, he quickly recognised the voice.

“Martin!” he gasped as he entered the pergola and caught sight of the prince, sitting hunched over on one of the benches. He must have given the prince the fright of his life, if the way he jumped to his feet was anything to go by.

“Douglas!”

As the prince moved, the tears on his face reflected the light from the moon, and Douglas instantly moved closer. “What happened?” he whispered.

The prince gave him a wet smile, and Douglas noticed that he was swaying ever so slightly from side to side. “Looks like I’m getting married,” the prince said, voice slurred by both grief and wine.

“Oh,” Douglas said, trying to ignore the (foolish, foolish) burst of disappointment in his chest. He put a hand on the younger man’s elbow and helped him sit back down on the bench. “To whom?” he asked as he settled down beside him.

The prince shrugged and rubbed his eye. “Lord Marblesteed.” Douglas assumed that this was the man Martin had been dancing with earlier, but he didn’t say that. “He’s utterly dreadful.”

“Well, if he is utterly dreadful, I am sure there had to be someone better in there.”

The prince looked up at him with a look that unashamedly questioned his intelligence. “I do not have a say in who I marry, Douglas! My father likes to pretend that I do, but he has the final word. If I had a choice, I would be… I definitely would not be marrying him.”

“Why is your father so keen to marry you off?”

The prince hesitated for a moment, then he smiled a strange little smile – a mix of the drunken despair from before, and that mischievousness a Douglas was so found of. “Tell you what,” he slurred. “If you can figure out that thing I was thinking about before, I’ll tell you why.”

Douglas had to search his memory for quite a while to remember just what the other man was talking about, and then he had to think some more, to remember the details of their particular game. It had been some time since then, after all.

“So it’s a vehicle without wheels…”

The prince smiled at him and nodded. Even the reddened eyes and pale face enhanced his charm. All put together, he looked like the hero of some archetypical tragedy – which was not too far from the truth, really.

“Is it used to travel across water?”

The prince hesitated for a moment. “Yyyes,” he said eventually.

His uncertainty made Douglas raise a quizzical eyebrow. “But it normally isn’t?”

“Well, it is, but…” The prince snapped his mouth close and shook his head at Douglas – which clearly did not help his dizziness. “Just ‘yes-or-no-questions’, Douglas! I won’t fall your- _for your tricks!”_ He leaned closer to Douglas as he chastised him, but overbalanced and fell into Douglas’ chest.

The young man felt awfully light and cold against him – both likely do to his lack of appetite – and Douglas did not posses the will to push him away. It seemed to take the prince a moment to realise his new position, for he laid still against Douglas’ chest for a while, before bursting into movement.

“I’m terr’bly sorry,” he mumbled as he reared back. Douglas had to wrap an arm around his back to stop him from tumbling to the ground.

“Careful there, your highness.” Oh, how thin he was! His coat did a good job of hiding it, but holding him like this, it was obvious that the prince had lost a lot of weight. “It wouldn’t do to have you break your skull, would it?”

The prince smiled a wobbly smile, but didn’t respond. He straightened himself properly and moved ever so slightly closer to Douglas as he did so. “Next question,” he prompted, seemingly unaware of the way Douglas heart sped up.

Not that he’d ever let that show. No, his voice was perfectly steady as he asked: “Is it also used to travel across land?”

“Yes,” the prince murmured, eyelids drooping slightly, as though at any time, he might be swept into the land of dreams. Oh, Heavens have mercy!

“Ah!” Douglas exclaimed with realisation. “Is it a slay?”

“No,” the prince said, shaking his head.

 _“No?”_ Douglas echoed, genuinely surprised.

“Nope,” the prince said. You’ve got eleven questions left, by the way.”

Douglas laughed. “I cannot believe you still remember.”

“Of course I do,” the prince said. He leaned closer conspiratorially, despite the fact that they were completely alone. “It was the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

Douglas smiled back at him, and tried not to breathe in the sent of the other man. However, as he spoke, his nose and mouth filled with the whatever perfume the young prince was wearing; a dark, foresty sent with tones of honey. 

“It’s not a carriage on a ship, is it? Because I believe that would be cheating.”

“It’s not! Nothing like that!” the prince shouted indignantly. “Why are you so quick to believe that I’m cheating!?”

“Well, this _is_ your first time playing,” Douglas murmured. “You could easily have misunderstood the rules.”

A cool wind swept in into the pergola, bringing with it the sent of jasmine and grass. The prince shivered and huddled closer to him, leaning his tired head against Douglas’ shoulder. “No, I understand the rules just fine, thank you,” he said. As he spoke, his hair tickled against Douglas’ throat.

The chef allowed himself to lean his own head on top of the prince’s as he thought. He knew it was a bad idea, but sitting there in the dark, it felt almost as if they lived in a world appart from everyone else. A world where nobody could possibly mind him sitting so close to a man – a prince out of all things – betrothed to somebody else.

Douglas sighed and thought for a moment, raking his mind for any object that fit with the information he already had. Realisation struck. “Does it fly?”

The prince nodded excitedly against his shoulder.

“Is it a hot air balloon?”

The prince moved away to make eye-contact with him, an adorable smile lighting his face. “Yes!” he said with a slight laugh.

“Clever choice,” Douglas said. “I would never have come up with something like that.”

“Well,” the prince mumbled, once again leaning against his shoulder. “I… I quite like balloons. I’ve always wanted to fly in one.”

“Really?”

The prince nodded. “My father does not think it is becoming for a prince to be interesting in things like that. He hopes that I will turn to more suitable hobbies once I get married.”

“I see,” Douglas said, because he could not come up with anything else to say. He wrapped an arm around the younger man’s shoulders and squeezed him comforting.

“I know he thinks he’s doing what is best for me,” the prince murmured, growing heavier and heavier against him. “I just wish he would listen to what _I_ want.”

He went silent after that, and after a moment Douglas realised that he had fallen asleep. Careful not to wake him, the chef lifted the prince into his arms and carried him towards the castle. As they came into the light of the moon, he looked down to behold the prince’s face. He looked much like he had that afternoon in the meadow, only his features appeared more delicate in the low light, and he infinitely more vulnerable with his head leaned back and neck exposed.

It seemed he still would have much difficulty sleeping.


	6. Love's Reward Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Longest chapter so far! I don't know if I'll publish the last bit in one or two parts, but at least I know exactly what's going to happen.

Lord Marblesteed left two days later with the other guests to allow the castle-staff to clean the castle, and start preparing for the wedding – only one month in the future. The lord would return to the castle within a few weeks, to ‘get to know his betrothed’.

The moral of the staff had dropped significantly on the thought of another period of intense work so close after the first one. Douglas’ bad mood was hardly noticed, seeing as everyone were irritable and subdued.

Well, everyone except one.

“This is so _exciting!_ Isn’t it, Douglas?” Arthur exclaimed, as he bounced about the kitchen. He’d taken up the habit of visiting Douglas daily, to ask for his advice concerning the prince’s ever 

Douglas only hummed in response, absorbed as he was by the oak leaf he was cutting out of a thin layer of pie-dough. He lifted the fragile shape of the work-top and placed it on top of the pork-pie he was working on. The pie was covered in an immaculate pattern of acorns and leaves.

“Oh, Douglas! That’s brilliant!”

“Why, thank you Arthur,” Douglas said as he brushed his hands against his apron to clean of some of the flour covering them. “I should hope you’re right, seeing as it’s intended for his majesty himself.”

Arthur looked at him with a slight crease between his eyebrows as Douglas placed the pie in the oven. “Why are you making a pie for the king? I mean, His Majesty!”

“You can call him ‘the king’, you know. It’s different from ‘Martin’s father’,” Douglas said, ignoring the young man’s question.

“Ah, right. It’s a bit confusing, all this.” Arthur said sheepishly.

“I’m sure you will get to grips with it in due time.”

As soon as the pie was finished, Douglas brought it to the king’s chambers. His Royal Highness reacted very positively to the unprompted offering, but his smile faded quickly when Douglas tried to bring the subject of the wedding up.

“His Highness must be very glad that his son has found a husband.” Douglas was very careful to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice.

The king turned to glare out the window for a moment before answering. “It is most certainly a relief.”

“A relief?” Douglas inquired innocently. “Forgive me if I am being too nosy, but how exactly is it a relief?”

The king turned back to eye Douglas up and down. “I hope you don’t think that I am unaware of the many hours my son has spent in your company as of late. If I were you, I would put any irrational fantasies – be they yours or his – out of mind. I will not allow my son to throw his future away for pointless dreams and empty promises.”

“I can assure you, Your Highness,” Douglas exclaimed. Panic grasped his heart, but outwardly he affected a perfect scandalized expression. “I would never dream of overstepping the bounds of my position and my friendship with–“

“I trust that you don’t,” the king snapped, his eyes icy granite. “You are the best head-chef we have ever had in this castle. It would be a shame if you were to lose your position over something as base as temptation.” His voice and gaze implied that Douglas stood to lose a whole lot more than his position should he move against the king’s will.

Douglas swallowed slightly, and nodded. “I will not disappoint you, Sire.” He attempted a smile but he could sense how shaky it must have looked.

“Splendid,” the king said, returning his smile with one that looked more like a grimace.

Douglas took his leave quickly and hurried down the corridor, afraid to stop too closely to the king’s chamber. Once he had made it some way down the hallway, he stopped to get his breathing and heart under control.

– - –

As soon as the sun had risen the day after the feast, Douglas had headed for Carolyn’s office. His eyes where red and ached to the point were he barely could keep them open. He had hoped to enjoy the company of someone who’s dour mood matched his own – never mind that they had completely different reasons for these emotions. If anyone was tired of celebrations by now, it would be Carolyn.

However, when he stepped into the office, he was greeted by an elated exclamation. “My husband is dead!”

Douglas stood at the threshold, blinking owlishly at the vicious smile on Carolyn’s lips. “My condolences?” he said finally as he moved further into the office.

“Don’t waste them on Gordon; he was a dreadful creature,” Carolyn said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “But more importantly, he never bothered to write a will, which means…” She paused for a moment to pull out a pale blue envelope from the top drawer of her desk with a dramatic flourish. “…that _I_ get the lot!”

“My congratulations, then,” Douglas said. “And what is it that he has left you?”

Carolyn put her reading-glasses on and pulled a single document out of the envelope. “A rather small fortune – I assume he must’ve grown wasteful in later days, an unnecessarily large mansion with all its furniture, two horses and a hot air balloon, and various other eccentric…”

“A hot air balloon!?” Douglas exclaimed.

Carolyn gave him a withering look for interrupting her. “Well spotted,” she said dryly. “Why did that particular detail catch your attention?”

“W… Well,” Douglas stuttered. “It is quite a _rare_ thing to inherit, isn’t it?”

Carolyn raised her eyebrows and leaned her chin in the palm of her hand. “I suppose. That’s partly why I’m planning on making a business out of it.”

“A business?”

_“Knapp-Shappy’s Altitudes,”_ she said grandly. “‘Adventure and transport in the sky!’”

“Marvelous tagline,” Douglas said slightly dryly. “Does that mean that you and Arthur will leave our little gang?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, and after a long pause. “And Hercules.”

A grin spread across Douglas’ face. “Ah! I would congratulate you once again, if not for fear of repeating myself.”

Carolyn glared at him but said nothing.

“So, when will you be leaving?”

“Next Saturday. We’re turning in our letters of resignation today.” Ten days from now, then.

Douglas mind was already hard at work to formulate a plan. Surely it must be a sign from the heavens when something as perfect as this drops into your lap? He counted all his resources and gathered intelligence, sorting the relevant from the irrelevant. He followed the threads through the darkness of his mind, finding that most of them ended in disaster.

Finally, as Carolyn was uttering the last syllable of her sentence, he grabbed a thread that responded with the firm resistance that indicated a firm connection at the other end. He raced along it, watching as the details shaped a whole like the individual strokes of a great masterpiece. Even the splotches of potential blood-spill could not diminish its beauty.

With a surge of pride in the brilliance of his own mind, he turned his attention back to Carolyn and said: “Would you mind very much having an extra passenger for your maiden flight?”

– - –

The weather took a turn for colder nights the following three days. As the moon peaked in through his window, Douglas wrapped himself in a hooded cape and left his room for the kitchen. There, he packed two bags – one small and flat, one rather large – with several kinds of long-lasting foods.

He left the larger bag in the shadows under the sturdy table at the centre of the kitchen, and snuck down the corridor. He made sure to walk past the guards-office, and that his steps echoed loud enough to be heard through the door.

Then, he walked to Prince Martin’s chambers. He stopped at the door to listen for sounds and heard the faint murmur of crying coming from the prince’s room. Douglas’ heart clenched, and he had to take a moment to steady himself, before pushing the door open.

The door creaked and the sobs were punctuated by a sudden gasp. Douglas snuck across the room, towards the bed. The form under the cover lay unnaturally still, as though holding its breath, waiting for whatever would happen next.

“Are you awake?” he breathed and immediately he heard a tiny yet explosive exhalation of relief.

“That’s ‘Your Highness’ to you,” The prince muttered, trying to muster the same old indignation but Douglas could here the watery tremble to his voice. He kept his back to Douglas even as he adressed him.

Douglas decided to leave it be, and went on to ask. “Are you prepared for your big day yet?”

Martin was quiet for a long while, a whisper of a not quite concealed sob escaping his lips. Rather than voicing his response, he simply shook his head.

“I thought so,” Douglas said, settling the candle he had brought with him on top of the nightstand before sitting down on the side of Martin’s bed. Without really thinking it through, he reached out to run his fingers through Martin’s hair. It seemed to be the right thing to do, as the prince’s body slumped in relaxation. “Does your father know that you do not want to marry Lord Marblestead?”

“Yes,” said the prince. “But he still believes it’s for the best.” He scooted a bit closer to Douglas, but still wouldn’t turn to face him. He pressed his face into his pillow in an obvious attempt to hide his tears, and Douglas once again allowed himself to do what his heart asked of him. This might be the last time he saw the young prince in a very long while, after all.

He leaned closer hand moved his hand to wipe the prince’s cheek, hushing him with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Now, now, Highest of Highnesses, there is no need to cry. You’re not a child, after all.”

“Be quiet!” Martin snapped, and it seemed that that was enough to break the floodgates. He cried loudly and openly. The shoulder not pressed against the mattress shook violently, and his body curled into itself, as though trying to protect the fragile belly from a brutal blow.

Douglas stroked his cheek gently, and placed his other hand on the prince’s shoulder in an effort to still it. “I guess you don’t want to hear about my brilliant plan, then.”

Martin stopped sobbing abruptly and turned to look up at him. He sniffed once before asking: “What plan?”

Douglas pressed his lips together and made a gesture as though to say ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do’.

“Douglas!” Martin whined, thumping Douglas’ thigh with his hand.

“Oh fine, since you ask so nicely.” Douglas ruffled those silly curls once before continuing talking. “Have you heard of Mrs. Knapp-Shappey’s inheritance?”

Martin looked at him with obvious confusion. “No?” he said, obviously wondering whatever this had to do with his own troubles.

“Ah,” said Douglas with a grin. “Then, I suppose you must not know about her new mode of transport.” He paused for a moment for effect, just until the moment when Martin was about to hit his leg again. “Her airborne transport.”

The prince sat up fully, staring at Douglas with eyes the size of saucers. “Truly?”

Douglas laughed at his expression. “Would I lie to my favourite prince?”

Martin blushed and looked away. Douglas didn’t allow himself to wonder what that meant. “What does that have to do with me?” he said brusquely, voice raw with tears.

“Well, I spoke to her the other day, and as it turns out, she, Arthur, and our dear Hercules, will be leaving the castle next saturday to start up their very own business.

“An hot air balloon business?” the prince said with amazement.

“Indeed.” Douglas felt a slight rush as he prepared to reveal the very centre-point of his great plan. “And, as it turns out, she happens to have room for a stow-away during this maiden-flight, as well as a position as co-pilot of this magnificent vessel. Does Your Highness perhaps know of anyone who would be interested in such an arrangement?”

At this point, the prince looked much like a fish that had been stranded on the shore. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed to get any words past them. “Douglas…” he said eventually. Tears welled up in his eyes again, but he hid them well by leaning close and wrap his arms around Douglas’ neck. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“No need to thank me,” Douglas said and returned the hug. “What sort of a man would I be if I left my esteemed prince in the hands of some despicable brute?”

“My father will be furious,” Martin protested, but it was clear that he didn’t really put much weight behind his objection.

“I suppose it’s the choice between his fury – as well as the worry you might cause your whole family – and your own eternal unhappiness. I wouldn’t pretend to know what you ought to do.”

The prince paused for a moment, leaning his chin against Douglas shoulder as he thought. Douglas couldn’t claim that he minded their position too badly. “I suppose I could always write to them at some point to tell them that I am well. And, maybe I could visit sometime down the line, once things have calmed down.”

“I _suppose_ you could,” Douglas said, patting Martin’s back gently.

Martin pulled back to look him in the eyes. “I don’t know how to repay you,” he said with such intensity that Douglas could barely bare it.

Douglas smiled and stroked Martin’s back. “There’s absolutely no need to repay me.”

Martin smiled back. “Oh, I know you! ‘Never less than seven ulterior motives’, remember?”

Something twisted inside Douglas’ chest, and he struggled slightly to uphold the smile on his lips. “Not this time.”

“Oh, but surely…” Martin disentangled himself from him and got out of bed. “I won’t be able to bring much of my possessions, obviously. You can help yourself to whatever you like!” He opened up his closet and pulled out his finest coat – the silk one decorated with gold and stoat-fur. “I’m sure you can sell this to someone in town. And… And…” He rushed over to his desk and picked up his engagement-ring. “And this! Please, do sell this awful thing! I never want to see it again!”

_“Please!”_ Douglas snapped, getting up from his place on the bed. “Is it really so hard to believe that I simply want to help you!?”

Martin stood in the middle of the room, looking lost and alone. “I just want… I want to make sure you’re happy.” There was something undeniably childlike about him in that moment, and Douglas was eternally glad that he wouldn’t be on his own out in the world.

He sighed and walked up to the young prince to lift the coat out of his arms. After hanging it over the back of the chair next to the desk, he enveloped Martin’s hands in his own. “Your happiness is my happiness, wherever you are.” Their gazes locked for a long moment, before the prince looked away.

“You’re being unusually pleasant,” he mumbled, staring down at his bare feet.

Douglas only hummed in reply. He allowed himself to look upon the other man throughly, to memorize the way the soft candlelight reflected in his hair, and his tear-reddened eyes. His heart swelled in his throat, so that he could barely speak. “Be careful out there, sweet prince.”

The prince bit his lip, pressing Douglas’ hands thoughtfully. “Are you…” he faltered for a moment. “Are you not coming with us?”

And Douglas’ heart screamed its consent, so loud that it reverberated through his chest and ribs. He drew a long breath through his nose to steady himself before speaking. “I’m afraid I can’t, Your Highness.”

“Why not!?”

Douglas smiled with a mixture of sorrow and amusement. “What do you think your father would assume, if his head-chef and friend of his son, was to disappear at the same time as said son, on the very same day as the object of this son’s obsession is to take off from their home?”

Martin’s face fell as realisation hit him. “Of course,” he mumbled, letting go of Douglas’ hands. “I didn’t think it through, I’m sorry.”

“That is why I’m here, Your Highness,” Douglas said with feigned lightness. “Which brings us to the second most important part of my plan. As it would look very suspicious if you were to disappear at the same time as the ballon takes of, it would probably be best if you hid somewhere in the castle a few days before that.”

“Hide? Where?”

“I asked myself that very same question for quite a while. It would have to be somewhere where nobody would think to look; a place no one would expect you to hide, or, even better, a place nobody knew of. But, where ever…?”

_“Please, Douglas!”_ Martin snapped. “Just spit it out!”

Douglas sighed dramatically. “Very well. I see that my talents for story telling are not to be appreciated here. Did you know that Mrs. Knapp-Shappey has a secret compartment under the desk in her office?”

_“What!?”_ Martin exclaimed, so loud that Douglas was worried someone might here them.

‘If they do, it still might work in our favour,’ he thought. Out loud he said, “See, if you had just allowed me to reveal it naturally, it wouldn’t have been such a shock.”

“How long have you known of this!?”

“Just for a couple of days. Nobody besides her knows of it, apparently. It’s where she keeps all her dark and dreadful secrets.”

“Mrs. Knapp-Shappey has dark and dreadful secrets?”

“None of which you’d like to know of, I assure you. Anyhow, I have packed you a bag of food and drink that will last you until next Saturday. You will lay in this secret compartment during Knapp-Shappey’s office hours, and she will let you out during her lunch-break and in the evening to allow you to stretch your muscles and relieve yourself. On the eve of Friday, she will lead you to the ballon, which will already be prepared for take-off the next morning. The whole castle will joyously see you off, not knowing that their youngest prince is among the passengers, for he will already have disappeared without a trace over a week ago.”

Martin blinked owlishly at him for a moment. “Lord,” he breathed, leaning against his writing desk to steady himself. “You truly have accounted for everything.”

‘More than you know,’ Douglas thought. “Why, did you expect anything less of me, dear prince?”

The young prince smiled at that. “I suppose not. Although,” he stood up straight again and took Douglas by the hand once more as though to shake it. “I suppose you will have to stop calling me ‘Prince’ and ‘Your Highness’, now that I leave such titles behind.”

Douglas struggled to breathe for a moment, before putting on a mask of light amusement. He put his other hand on top of the princes, and said, in a voice as steady as he’d ever had. “Indeed, dear Martin, captain of the fair and graceful Gertrud.”

Martin flushed with pleasure, but shook his head. “I hardly think Knapp-Shappey will let me be captain before Mr. Shipwright. He’s at least 20 years my senior!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain. If you demand it with half the insistence you have used on me, I’m sure she’ll secede eventually.”

Douglas lead Martin through the darkened corridors – this time making sure to avoid any room in which people would still be awake – till they ened up at Carolyn’s office, where the head of staff was awaiting them, a frown etched between her eyebrows.

She declined both Douglas’ and Martin’s help to move the writing desk covering the hidden hatch. (“I have moved it a thousand times my self before, and I could do it a thousand times again, if need be.”) The compartment was as big as a coffin, and Martin’s small stature meant that he had quite a lot of elbow room, all things considered.

Carolyn had already fetched a pillow and thin blanket to make his position more comfortable, and Martin could not seem to stop thanking her for all her help.

“Yes, yes,” said she. “Save all that for later. Or don’t, actually. I’m not susceptible to flattery.”

Martin and Douglas bid one another goodbye with a handshake that turned into a slightly awkward hug. As Carolyn was watching them, they were not nearly as emotional as they had been in the now ex-prince’s chambers, but Douglas fancied that the last look they shared would haunt him for the rest of his days, for better or worse.

He left Carolyn’s office, and hurried back to the kitchen without looking back.


	7. Love's Reward Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm actually finishing this. I'm as surprised as you are. I'll publish the next (and last) chapter tomorrow.
> 
> EDIT: ALSO THERE'S SOME POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING STUFF IN THIS CHAPTER BE WARNED!

There was no moon that night and the air was heavy with rain. Douglas’ face stung from the cold, but he pressed on. Behind him, he heard at least a dozen sharp voices echoing, and he did not need to look back to know that they were gaining on him, for he could see the lights from their torches reflect against the trees in front of him.

 

_Carolyn glared at him, tapping her pen against the desk with curt rhythm. “I won’t be able to run a functioning business if I am to be chased to the edge of the world for having kidnapped a prince.”_

_“You won’t be. Nobody’s going to suspect that he has gone with you.”_

 

The horses were breathing loudly, and he could feel sweat of the one he was riding slowly seeping through his trousers. He kept his head low to ride under a row of low branches. At least one of his pursuers were knocked of their horse behind him. It would not have been too difficult to find a shadow in which to hide from his pursuers, but Douglas had no intentions on getting away.

 

_“Oh, will they not? Even if he disappears a couple of days before we leave, they’re still going to check every single person who leaves the castle!”_

_“Ah! But what if they are convinced he’s already left the castle by then?”_

 

He let go of the other horse and it continued to run beside his own for a while before slowing down to join the rest of the ‘flock’. The men behind him shouted amongst themselves until one finally grabbed on to the horse’s lead.

Finally, Douglas decided to finish of his performance, and turned his horse toward the cliff located in the western part of the forest. After only a few minutes the cliff rose into his line of sight. The fire danced in the dark stone and Douglas knew he was caught. He made a show of trying to turn his horse around, but he only managed to pull his horse to a stop before his pursuers caught up with him. He was pulled of his horse and thrown to the ground. Before he could even blink, his hands and legs had been tied up and he was thrown onto the back of his own horse.

The trip back to the castle was unpleasant and slow. Douglas could barely breathe and his nose kept knocking against the side of the horse, and as if that was not quite enough, a few of the soldiers could not seem to keep from boxing his back and tugging his hair and sneering at him.

“Where is the prince!?” they asked, several times over, despite Douglas continued silence.

As soon as they arrived, Douglas was brought to the castle’s prisson; a circular tower incased, although not a part of, the outer walls of the castle. He had before this moment only seen it from a distance, and in this minuscule lighting, it took him a few seconds to recognise it as the strange building he had viewed from the other side of the expansive courtyard.

He was brusquely lifted of the horse and lead into the building. Despite their obvious fury, the guards had at least done him the favour of untying his feet. Douglas was moderately grateful.

To his surprise, he was then lead _down_ a spiraling staircase, into a hitherto unknown dungeon apparently located under the tower. The staircase terminated in a narrow corridor and at the end of it, they emerged into a large room with a low ceiling. The lighting was sparse and all you could make out with certainty was the heavy wooden chair situated in the middle of the room. Douglas was immediately forced into the chair and tied to it.

The guards moved away, presumingly to the back wall, and Douglas could hear the sound of a door opening in the murky darkness infront of him.

“Mr. Richardson,” said a voice Douglas did not recognise.

“Present,” he said nonchalantly. “How can I be of assistance?”

The man stepped into the light. He was an enormous man, tall and broad shouldered, and with a face twisted in obvious malice. “My name is Dirk, and I was just wondering if you might know where His Royal Highness Prince Martin is.” 

– - –

Douglas’ entire body was throbbing, his back especially, which had taken the worst beating over the past however many hours. He had been quite surprised that the guardsman, or rather, interrogator, despite his brutish appearance and dull face, possessed a frankly stellar creativity, at least when it came to his own craft. Not to mention his sense of _subtlety._ Where other people might go directly for a full out lashing, he started out with the mildest of aggressions and slowly, frustratingly slowly, worked himself upwards.

At the beginning, he had done nothing more than pull at Douglas’ hair, slapp him and mutter insults at him between the repeated question of where Prince Martin was, but as the time drawled on, he slowly escalated his acts of violence; quickly enough for Douglas’ not to get used to any degree of pain, but slowly enough for him to start wishing for the next degree of suffering, in hopes that it might be the ultimate one.

It did not feel anything like relief when Dirk finally brought out the whip that he had first expected. The interrogator didn’t even bother to remove Douglas’ shirt, but slowly whipped it to pieces, adding another level of slowly rising pain. He could not pin point the moment he lost consciousness, but he must have, because one moment, he was kneeling on the floor, and the next, he was laying surrounded by complete darkness, arms still tied behind his back, in a puddle of something wet and sticky that must have been blood.

The moment he made a sound, a hand shot out of the darkness, yanking his head up from the floor, and Douglas could not keep a scared yelp from escaping his throat. Dirk laughed, and Douglas realised that the blurry shapes he was staring at was actually a face.

“Good morning, old friend,” Dirk whispered. “Did you have a nice rest? Perhaps you can now recall where the young prince is?” He dug his claw like nails into Douglas’ skin.

“No. Still don’t know,” Douglas said, voice slightly muted by the palm covering his mouth.

Dirk growled and forced his head back to the floor, chin first, so that Douglas nearly bit his tongue of as his jaw snapped shut with a painfully loud sound. Douglas could here him move away, and a few seconds later, a single flame lit up the room.

Dirk returned to him, carrying a torch. “I will ask you again: Where is he?”

“Don’t know,” Douglas muttered.

Without flinching or hesitating, Dirk thrust the torch into Douglas’ shoulder, and Douglas screamed.

– - –

Carolyn had come to visit him on the second day of his imprisonment. She was escorted into his cell by two guards with stern expressions that seemed downright sunny in comparison to the frown on Carolyn’s face.

Despite her obvious anger, she managed to play the part of shocked, innocent colleague and friend. Or perhaps the chock was genuine, considering how dreadful Douglas must look. “What have you done, Douglas?” she snapped.

 _“Carolyn!_ I’m _wounded!”_ Douglas said, silently proud of the energy he was able to muster in his voice. “Why must you assume that I have done something wrong? Perhaps I simply wished to go for a moonlight ride through the forest!”

“With the Prince’s best coat and his wedding ring!?” one of the guards snapped, her face growing red at a frankly alarming rate.

“Oh, those,” Douglas said with a dismissive wave of the hand, ignoring how his arm trembled. “They where gifts his royal highness chose to bestow upon me, as a parting-gift I assume, although I did not realise it at the time.”

“Indeed,” said the guard. “A very likely story!”

Douglas wasn’t paying her much attention, focusing entirely on Carolyn. “I hope you haven’t told Arthur about my predicament. I would hate for him to worry about, or think less of me.”

The implied message was received immediately and without as much as a start from Carolyn. “I haven’t, and I will not.” She glared at him, her gaze nailing him to the wall he was leaning against. “I do not think he could bare it.” 

– - –

Keeping quiet had not always been easy, but every time he had been on the verge of spilling, he only had to remind himself that the truth was unlikely to be believed. ‘No, I did not whisk His Highness away into the forest the night he disappeared. He is actually hidden in Mrs. Knapp-Shappey’s office, in a hidden compartment under the floorboards and is going to be go with her when she leaves her duty to start up a hot air balloon business, and the extra horse and the prince’s possessions I brought with me into the woods was just intended to throw you of the sent further.’

Dirk had been quite zealous in his torture, but after days without making any progress he started to grow less amused. 

 

“Where is Prince Martin?” he said, for what must have been the eleventh time in the last hour.

“I would not know, sir.”

 

Suddenly, Douglas was standing at his usual place in the kitchen, pouring over his many cookbooks with the soft crackle of fire in his back. The text was blurry, as though someone had soaked the volumes in water.

He wasn’t too interested in them though. Because within a few seconds, someone entered the kitchen. Before he could turn around, a pair of slender arms wrapped around his chest and squeezed him close.

“I’ve missed you,” Martin said, voice soft and trembling.

Douglas tried to turn around to look upon his young friend, but Martin would not let him. “I have missed you too.” He clasped the hand pressed against his chest.

“How could you do this to me?” The prince’s voice grew blurry with tears. “Why did you betray me!?”

“I am only trying to help you. We will meet again soon enough!”

Martin suddenly let go of him, and the loss of his arms around him felt like having the air yanked right out of his lungs.

He must have been asleep, because he was jolted awake by the sound of cheering outside the tiny window of his cell.

“What is happening?” he asked, turning his head to the guard. He assumed that there was at least one guard outside his jail cell, even if he could not see them through the heavy oak door.

“Mrs. Knapp-Shappey, Mr. Shipwright and Mr. Shappey are leaving,” said a vaguely familiar voice.

Ah, so it had been three days, after all, or rather, this was the morning of the forth day. Douglas had not completely lost all connection to reality. ‘You actually managed it,’ Douglas thought, his chest swelling with relief.

‘He is going to be absolutely furious when he finds out.’ It was foolish to think that Carolyn and Hercules would not tell Martin about Douglas’ fate, but surely they would wait until they had gone far enough for Martin not to be able to rush back home without thinking?

He had to use the wall for support as he got up, and would not let go of it for a moment while he peered out the window. He could not see the balloon, which must have been located somewhere to his left, beyond the scope of the window. He could tell by outskirts of the crowd visible if he leaned as far right as he could whilst still being able to look through the window.

He could tell by the excitable roar the exact moment when the balloon took off, and by then, his legs were shaking from exertion. Satisfied that his friends had officially left the castle, and would be beyond the King’s reach very soon, he allowed himself to slip to the floor and fall asleep once more.

 

He was standing in the ballroom again, in the very centre of the room, but this time the room was completely empty except for the prince, standing a few metres away from him, turned away from Douglas.

Douglas tried calling out to him, but no sound escaped his lips.

– - –

It took another three days for Dirk to give up on his interrogation, and Douglas’ trial was announced to everyone in the castle, as well as the villages surrounding it. The day before the trial was to be held, the king himself came to visit Douglas, much to the prisoners surprise.

The king entered alone, but one of the soldiers that had escorted him remained right outside the door, peering inside through the small, barred opening.

“Your Highness,” Douglas said, voice slurred by the wounds and swellings in his lower face. “Pray, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The king’s expression remained frozen in cold fury. The only sign of him hearing Douglas’ words was a slight twitch in his jaw. “I will ask you a question, Douglas. And this will be your last chance to answer it, so think it over very carefully before opening your maw. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“I do,” Douglas said, too tired to muster any witticisms.

“Very well. _Where is my son?”_ He spoke every word with at much weight as he could muster, enunciating them meticulously.

“I do not know,” Douglas said without a moment’s hesitation. 

The king convulsed with rage before he was able to gather his calm once more. “I will not ask you if you are certain, because I did warn you. Just know that you will bitterly regret that answer.” And with that the king swept back out of the room.

– - –

Despite knowing that he was heading towards a trial which outcome had most definitely already been decided, Douglas relished the sensation of wind and sunshine that hit him for the short walk across the courtyard. The moment was over shortly, and he was once more plunged into the shadows of a badly lit corridor. This time, however he was steered upwards, up a seemingly endless spiral of stairs.

They finally reached the top and started heading down a series of corridors Douglas did not recognise, not that there where many corridors in this castle that had many distinctive features.

Their journey terminated at the end of a wider corridor, pair of large, wooden, doors that led into the castle’s courtroom – a decadent, although rarely used room at the south side of the castle. The room was packed with people, mostly people working in the castle, but also a handful of the more wealthy inhabitants from the nearby towns.

Every single person turned, like one creature, to look at him when the doors opened. A rush of whispers rising from the crowd; that mix of horror and delight typical for an execution.

Douglas knew he looked terrible, but he was determined to walk with his head held high and a level expression on his face. If he was heading for a fight he could not win, he would at least lose with dignity.

The judge, a short, ancient man, glared at him from the top of his pulpet.

“Mr. Douglas Richardson,” he said as Douglas was lead to the rickety podium intended for the accused. “You have been accused of the murder of His Royal Highness Prince Martin.”

 _“Murder!?”_ So much for keeping proud and level-headed.

“Do not speak out of turn, Mr. Richardson,” the judge said.

Douglas felt foolish. He ought to have been able to foresee this! Of course the king would not be content to have him convicted of kidnapping; not when he so easily could make it murder.

“The lawful punishment for the murder of royalty is death. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Douglas said, impressed at how steady his voice sounded despite his thundering heartbeat.

The whispers of the audience once more rose, this time, the collective roar had an outraged tinge to it.

“Where you not discovered fleeing from the castle in the middle of the night with two horses, as well as several of the Prince’s precious possessions?”

“Indeed, although that hardly prove that I _murdered_ him.”

“Please, stay on topic, Mr. Richardson. And was not one of those possessions the Prince’s wedding ring?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get your hands on such a valuable and intimate possession?”

“He gave them to me.” This had to be another dream, his mind protested irrationally. Any moment now he would wake up in his cell, and the fact that this all made perfect sense would not matter because dreams always make sense while you’r in the middle of them!

“Why would the Prince give you his _wedding_ ring?”

“He didn’t want it.” More murmurs from the crowd. A few angry exclamations started to bubble up from there and there and soon the entire audience was in uproar, whilst the judge struggled to make himself heard above the noise.

“Order! _Order!”_ But the crowd would not be silenced.

The judge glanced upward. Douglas turned to follow his gaze and saw a balcony protruding from the far wall, a whole man’s hight above the heads of the crowd. The King was standing by the balustrade, gazing down on him without moving a muscle. His eyes flickered to the judge and after a moment’s eye-contact, he gave one, single nod of his head.

“Mr. Douglas Richardson,” said the judge, as loudly as he could without outright shouting. “You have been accused of murder, treason and theft. I have seen sufficient evidence to confidently proclaim you guilty of these charges. For this, your punishment shall be death by hanging, at the next opportunity.” He brought his gavel down, and Douglas was immediately pulled towards the exit by the guards.

The crowd did not fail to notice this, and begun loudly asking each other just what the final verdict had been. The judge seised this opportunity to regain control over the courtroom. He brought his gavel down and shouted ‘order!’ until the crowd finally quieted down. The doors closed behind Douglas just as he started recounting his verdict to the excitable audience.

– - –

Douglas did not waste a moment in planning his escape. He studied every detail of the way back to his cell, as subtly as he could manage, so as to not give the guards any hint of his intentions. It became clear that the most difficult task would be to get out of the cell itself, as the only possible exit was the door, which was locked and guarded at all times. After that, he could use the spiraling staircase, as well as the unoccupied cells along the way (which would hopefully be unlocked) to make his way to the ground without being seen. And then he only needed to find a horse and escape into the forest.

He glanced down at the belt of the guard next to him, where a large ring of keys jangled as he walked. There was no way he would be able to steal it without being noticed. Even if he did, the guard would notice its absence almost immediately, and who else was there to suspect but Douglas himself?

Somehow he would figure this out. He’d be damned if he let anyone outsmart the great Douglas Richardson.


	8. Love's Reward Part 7

Douglas’ execution was tomorrow, and still he sat in his cell, nothing but a number of bruises to show for all his attempts. He had only been caught once in his scheming, but that had been enough to warrant a terrible beating and withdrawn food for an entire day; not that the food he did get was that much better than air, but he supposed that a dying man had no right to expect anything more.

Loathe as he was to admit it, there was no denying that he had been bested. He, Douglas Richardson, was going to die tomorrow morning. The thought caused his chest to lurch with pain and a sob was wrenched from his throat, very much against his will. He covered his mouth to muffle the following sounds, loathe to think that the guard outside would notice him crying.

He was unable to stop the tidal wave of thoughts and memories that washed over him. How would it feel; like fading into sleep, or would it end like a snap of the fingers? He remembered it childhood at his parents’ practise, and the moment he realised that the life of a surgeon was not for him, how disappointed they had been when he told them he wanted to be a chef. What would happen afterwards? He had never much thought about the afterlife, or whichever way he might go. But most of all, he thought of Martin.

_Oh, Martin._

How he wished he had told him. Martin wouldn’t have had to answer – Douglas could easily have lived with a rejection (in as much as he would live at all). At least he would have been rid of the burning ember weighing down his heart.

But, of course, if he _had_ confessed his feelings to Martin, and he felt the same way, the young man might have insisted on him coming along, or refusing to leave without him.

No, Douglas mistake was not not having told Martin how he felt. His mistake was getting himself killed.

That train of thought lead him, of course, to imagining what he could have done to avoid it. If he had escaped the guards that night in the forest, what would have happen then? The hunt for the two of them would have gone on, perhaps in kingdoms beyond this one. Also, if Douglas had not been discovered with Martin’s coat and ring, the search might have turned to the castle. Perhaps suspicion might have been thrown onto Carolyn and the others. He had known all this when he made his initial plan, but there was little else to do now than to consider and regret the past.

He considered trying to stay awake through out the night, to prolong his time amongst the living, but, he thought, what would he do with those hours other than thinking of the oncoming disaster? If he slept, he might be freed from these horrendous thoughts. Maybe he would dream of Martin, he thought foolishly. In any other situation, he might have been a bit embarrassed by this sentimentality, but at this point, he thought he had earned the privilege.

– - –

He was jolted awake by a scream echoing through the stairwell outside his cell. The guard yelped and quickly rushed downwards. Douglas was prepared to settle back down again, as whatever was going on hardly had anything to do with him, but mere moments after the guard had left, the lock in the door clicked, and the door gave a low pitched whine as it was opened.

Douglas was laying face to the wall, uncertain if he wanted to make whoever it was aware of him being awake. Before he could make a decision, someone grabbed his shoulder and put a hand over his mouth. The second hand was unnecessary, as Douglas had been expecting the touch, but he still made a small sound, just to make it seem like he had been asleep.

He rolled over and… Surely he must have been dreaming?

Leaning over him, illuminated by nothing but the low light from the hallway, was Martin. Douglas _did_ make a loud noise at that, but luckily, the sound – which might have been a name – was muffled by Martin’s hand.

Before Douglas could completely register what was happening, he was pulled from his bed and dragged out into the hallway. Martin locked the door with a shaking hand, all the time glancing down the the stairs for the returning guard. To the confusion of Douglas’ still sleep-blurred mind, he then dragged Douglas _up_ the stairs. As they reached the hatch to the roof, they could here voices echoing from down the stairs; at first low and conversational, and then, just as Martin was about to close the hatch behind them, loud and angry.

The night, or more likely, early morning, was cold and foggy. On the flat stone roof, or rather, hovering a few inched above it, was something that at first looked like an anchor. But when Martin pushed him towards it, encouraging him to place his feet on it, Douglas realised that it was actually made of wood, and that it was _suspended,_ rather than hovering, from a thick rope, reaching up into the dark sky.

Martin stepped onto the ‘anchor’ on the opposite side, and wrapped a narrow arm around Douglas’ waist. For a moment, their eyes met, Martin’s seemed to glow with anger. Douglas just had time to grab onto the rope with one hand, and Martin with the other, before they were pulled into the air.

Douglas glanced at the castle, a shadow with a thousand glittering lights, before turning his full attention to Martin, who seemed to be making a point of not returning his gaze. It would have bothered Douglas more had it not provided him with the opportunity to drink in the young man he had thought he’d seen for the last time.

His hair had been unceremoniously chopped of. Instead of soft curls, his head was covered with unruly spikes. Not that it made him any less beautiful. From this angle Douglas had a wondrous view of that sharp, delicate nose, and those long eyelashes. Douglas’ heart squirmed in his chest and being this close to the young man, it was nigh on impossible to resist the urge to press a kiss to his forehead.

Finally, they reached the basket of the hot air balloon and two pairs of arms – belonging to Hercules and Arthur, as it turned out – helped pulling them into the basket. They could still hear the crowd beneath the fog, and remained quiet as the balloon rose into the wind and started floating away. Just a few seconds after they had been pulled in, the guards started shouting to each other.

“Where is he!?”

“He must’ve snuck past me!”

“You utter moron! How could you let him manage that!? Call for reinforcement! Search the courtyard and te stables! Do _not_ let him escape!”

The voices slowly faded into the distance as they made their way away. Slowly, the four passengers of crowded balloon started to relax.

Douglas was the first to speak, turning to Martin, a thousand apologies and thank you’s on his lips. He only managed to get to “Martin I…” before the young man slapped him across the cheek.

“What were you thinking!?” Martin hissed, still wary of racing his voice.

Douglas was about to answer, but just then, they broke through the fog and burst into the bright moonlight, and Martin _glowed._ The silver light flashed in his eyes and made their irises look like tiny siblings of the great orb in the sky. His skin seemed almost translucent and the angry flush glowing from beneath his skin like embers. The wind, quite stiff at this great hight, pulled at his hair and coat and made them fly all about his stiff body. In that moment he was, to Douglas, the embodiment of a great storm; utterly, terribly magnificent.

A trembling gasp burst from his chest as he stared, unable to form a single word.Hercules grabbed Arthur by the shoulder and turned him away from the other two men to give them some illusion of privacy.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Martin snapped, his voice trembling slightly, and his storm-persona took on a more drizzly quality than a thunderous one. He seemed to deflate sightly, but remained as tense as an ice sculpture.

“I can honestly say,” Douglas drawled, “that I did not plan to get put to death.”

A surge of rage coursed through Martin’s body, causing his whole frame to vibrate. “If you won’t stop joking around,” he shouted, “I will throw you over the edge!” He emphasized his words by stomping and throwing his hand towards the cloudy sky floating by right beside them. He looked to be on the verge of tears.

“Forgive me,” Douglas said, voice much softer now. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

“I should hope not!” Martin snapped.

“I _did_ expect a few years of imprisonment for ‘kidnapping’ you,” he smiled at that. “I hadn’t accounted for the possibility of your father accusing me of murder.”

“You where going to give up your freedom just so that I wouldn’t have to marry Lord Marblestead!?”

“Yes.”

Martin stared blankly at him for a few seconds, their eyes locking for the first time in what felt like an eternity. 

“You are an idiot,” Martin muttered, looking down and ambling slightly nearer.

“I know,” Douglas said. He didn’t move, for fear that it might scare the young man into backing of again.

“You are _such an idiot!”_

“Now, do not be too harsh with me, dear Martin.”

The young man looked up at the usage of his name. Their eyes met once more, and tears blurred both of their gazes. 

“If you had died…” Martin said, his voice cutting off abruptly at the horrible word. “I wouldn’t be able to go on.”

“I know,” Douglas said wistfully. “I ought to have never left your side.” For once, he decided to ignore all facts and risk-calculations, and simply feel, against all rationality what he ought to have done. 

Martin shuddered again, from an emotion far softer than anger this time, and threw himself into Douglas’ waiting arms. Douglas had to take a step back to avoid falling over. He was keenly aware of the gunwale behind him, all while clasping the young man close. Martin fisted the front of his shirt with one hand, while throwing the other one around his waste. He cried softly into Douglas’ chest, and Douglas noted that Hercules increased the volume of his voice in an effort to keep Arthur distracted.

Douglas felt weeks of tension drain from his body. The relief of being safe and alive would have brought him to his knees, had he not been wrapped around Martin. The young man made a surprised noise, but managed to hold up the increased weight without too much trouble. Douglas held him firmly and tried to get his breathing under control, all too aware that they weren’t alone, and that his pride would not allow him to show such weakness infront of Hercules.

“You’re hurt,” Martin muttered. Douglas could feel his mouth move against his chest.

It’s not too bad,” he murmured, stroking Martin’s back soothingly. It had been more than a week since Dirk’s torturing had stopped. “I will be perfectly fine before you know it.”

He pulled away and tried his smuggest smile. “I must say, that was a most marvelous rescue. Pray, did you come up with it, dear Martin?” Hopefully, he was able to hide how much he relished uttering the ex-prince’s name.

Martin flushed and shook his head. He glanced over at Hercules, who managed to meet his gaze over his shoulder even whilst gesturing to a particularly dog-like cloud, which had Arthur exclaiming his delight.

“Actually, it was mostly – or rather entirely – Mrs. Knapp-Shappey and Mr. Shipwright.”

“We started preparing as soon as we heard of your sentence,” Hercules supplied, now fully turning to them. “Martin didn’t even know that you had been arrested before then.”

Douglas felt a stab of guilt at that. He couldn’t imagine Martin had taken the news well. (Also, who had given Hercules the right to use Martin’s first name!?) He glanced over at Martin, who seemed to have turned introspective. A frown etched itself between his brows, and his lips were thin and pale. Whatever thought he was having, it must not have been a pleasant one.

Douglas reached over to clasp his shoulder, gently bringing him out of his musings. “Next time I get arrested, you will be the first to know.” He kept his tone light, but tried to communicate his regret as best as he could through his gaze.

“I shall hope so,” Martin muttered, placing his hand on top of Douglas’, giving it a light squeeze.

– - –

The plan, as it where, turned out not to be all that complicated in the end. The balloon-crew had found out the details of Douglas’ entrapment from one of the undercooks, who was convinced of Douglas’ innocence, having seen him and Martin interact and unable to perceive that they were anything less than precious friends.

The cook had managed to find out where Douglas was kept, down to both the number of his cell, as well as the hight of his window. Martin always carried his keyring, that enabled him to unlock any door in the castle, and had brought it with him when he went into hiding.

They _would_ have arrived earlier, but it had taken a few days for the news of Douglas’ sentence to reach them, and then they had spent another day preparing themselves (mainly constructing the anchor-like structure that enabled two people to hang on to the rope at the same time far better than a simple loop at the end of the rope would). The night that followed had been too bright to hope to fly the balloon over the castle unnoticed. They were prepared to venture out the night before Douglas’ execution, regardless, but luckily, as they made their final preparations to take off (at around eleven in the evening), a fine layer of mist started to rise from the ground, and by the time they reached the castle, it had thickened into an impenetrable fog.

First, they had dropped Martin of on the roof. The decision to have him undertake the actual rescue was made after the realisation that he was the only one who was likely to escape punishment if discovered.

Then, Hercules had hoisted Arthur down to a few feet above the ground (by way of a different rope, with a simple loop at the end). He had made the terrible noise that had woken Douglas (Arthur had apparently spent several hours practising the particular pitch and length of his scream).

Arthur had quickly been reeled back up before any person on the ground could pot him, and Martin moved down into the tower. The rest Douglas already knew.

He came very close to commenting on how Martin being caught would have rendered all of Douglas’ efforts meaningless, but he didn’t think that that would go down well with the young ex-prince.

 

They flew on for at least ten miles, before landing outside a small town. The sun had started to rise by now, and the gray fog was starting to slip away. They landed in a field of yellow grass, and the world had never felt so bright and vibrant. Douglas climbed out of the basket and turned to help Martin, but the young man was already standing atop the gunwale gazing down at him with a wonderful smile. The wind played in his hair and he was lit from behind by the first rays of the rising sun.

“And is it all that you hoped it to be?” Douglas asked.

Martin laughed. “Oh, yes! That, and far, far more.”

Hercules and Arthur left to fetch Carolyn from the tavern in town where she was waiting. Martin and Douglas stayed behind on Hercules’ suggestion. “Someone needs to watch the balloon. You can tend to Douglas’ wounds while you’re waiting.” Yes, as it turned out, the group had even brought a small medical kit, in case Douglas needed immediate medical attention.

Douglas begrudgingly gave Hercules a grateful nod as the two men left, well aware that this was only a deliberately designed opportunity for him and martin to be get some proper time to themselves. Martin seemed to realise it to, as he didn’t once bring up Douglas’ earlier claim about not being ‘too bad’.

Douglas pulled his tattered shirt of and immediately regretted it when he saw the chocked expression on Martin’s face. His chest was covered with bruises, and the burn mark on his shoulder had grown red and oozed with pus. Perhaps it was a bit too much for a prince’s sheltered sensibilities.

“Sorry,” he said, affecting a light tone. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I can take care of it myself, if it bothers you.” He couldn’t really move his shoulder, but the wound was in his right shoulder rather than the left, so his dominant hand would not be impeded.

“Don’t be silly,” Martin said sharply. Snatching the medkit from the rock it was resting on, as though to prevent Douglas from having it. “I’m not a child; I can manage!”

He made Douglas sit down on a low slope and poured clean water from a pouch into a low-brimmed bowl. The bowl was set on the ground, and Martin pressed down on it slightly to create an indent in the soft soil that would keep the bowl from falling over.

Then he started cleaning the wound on Douglas’ shoulder. He used a cloth, that he dipped into the water, and rubbed it over the sensitive flesh. Douglas tried not to grimace, and focused on sitting as still as possible, so as to make Martin’s work easier and not prolong his own pain.

When Martin had finally finished, and bandaged the wound in impeccably clean cloth, he ran his hand, seemingly without noticing it himself, over the it, with a touch as light as a feather. “Does it hurt a lot?” he asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

“Only a bit,” Douglas said softly. Compared to how it had felt the hours after it had been inflicted, the burn felt like little more than the burn from a nettle. “Thank you for the help.”

Martin shook his head. “It’s my fault, anyway. If only I hadn’t–“

“Nonsense!” Douglas cut him of. “How could you have prevented something you did not know about? No, the thing that got me into this situation – and relish this, because it happens very rarely – was my own lack of foresight.”

Martin smiled slightly at the self-deprecating quip. He turned to sit down beside Douglas and leaning back on his arm against the hill. “Very well. Just don’t let it happen again.”

“You have my word, dear Martin.”

As they were sitting there in the grass, gazing at a small herd of sheep grazing in the distance, Douglas felt lighter than he had for many years. “I quite like what you have done with your hair, Martin,” he said, turning to the young man. “It suits you.”

Martin flushed and ran his hand through his cropped curls. “Carolyn says that I ought to colour it something less eye-catching; at least for the time being. Someone might recognize me from my hair.”

Douglas felt a foolish pang of longing at the thought of Martin losing his fiery curls. “Hmm,” he said cooly. “What a shame.”

“How so?” Martin said, sharply, turning his whole body towards Douglas.

“My apologies,” Douglas said, feeling slightly unsure. “I did not mean to imply that another hue would not suit you just as well.”

“I asked you why you thought it would be a shame,” Martin said, his tone equal parts demanding and pleading and who was Douglas to resist such a combination?

His heart seemed to grow within his chest, to the point were he feared he might burst if he did not let the truth out. For once, he decided to ignore all forms of risk-calculations and simply throw himself to the winds of faith.

“I’m quite found of your hair as it is.”

Martin sat as still as if he had been turned into stone, staring at Douglas with wide eyes. Indeed, time itself seemed to stop while the young man processed Douglas’ words.

“H… How do you mean?” said the prince, voice shaking despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

He would not be one to make it easy for Douglas, would he?

Douglas sighed. There really was no reason to stay quiet any more, was there. If he did not tell him now, he would only regret it. He closed his eyes for a moment, to gather his strength, before turning to gaze into the distant tree-line that hid the horizon from their view.

“I am also quite found of your freckles, and your nose, and your lips. I am very found of your passion and hardiness, and your silly attempts at humor. In all the World, there is no one in whose company I would rather be. Truly, the only ill-effect of spending time with you the terrible strain it puts on my old heart.”

“Hardly old,” Martin said softly.

Douglas was not prepared when the young man scooting closer and nearly flinched hard enough to dislodge the hesitant hold Martin had on his arm. “Sorry”, he murmured, offering his arm once more.

Martin said nothing, but wasted no time tucking himself into Douglas’ side, resting his head on Douglas’ shoulder. “Me too,” the young man whispered at length. “My heart doesn’t get much rest in your presence.”

Martin moved his head from Douglas’ shoulder to look at him face to face. Douglas placed a hand on Martin’s cheek, wiping away the tear that trickled down it. He leaned his forehead against Martin’s, almost afraid to initiate a kiss before he had calmed his racing heart.

Martin spared him from making that final leap, as he pressed his lips against Douglas’. His mouth was soft and still cold from the damp air early morning. He placed his hands on Douglas’ chest, gently grasping his shirt.

At length, they parted and laid down in the grass. Martin rested his head on Douglas’ chest and threw one arm over his chest. Douglas tucked his own arm under Martin’s waste and pulled him yet closer.

They said nothing as they lay there, gazing up at the fast brightening sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's that! Feels great to actually finish a piece of writing (as opposed to the essays I really ought to be working on now...) I didn't include Douglas' escape-attempts mostly because I felt like they wouldn't have added anything, as I already knew that I was leading up to this ending. Hope it doesn't come across as rushed :/
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through this project. I hope you enjoyed it!


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